Der Mann, der Donnerstag war - Ein Komplott anarchistischer Terroristen: Politischer Abenteuerroman

Von G. K. Chesterton

Dieses eBook: "Der Mann, der Donnerstag war - Ein Komplott anarchistischer Terroristen" ist mit einem detaillierten und dynamischen Inhaltsverzeichnis versehen und wurde sorgfältig korrekturgelesen.
Der Roman The Man Who Was Thursday von 1908 (dt. 1910 als Der Mann, der Donnerstag war) ist eine politische Satire, die der Phantastischen Literatur zugerechnet werden kann: Ein Komplott anarchistischer Terroristen am Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts entwickelt sich darin, unter zunehmender Verfremdung der Wirklichkeit, in ein verrückt-göttliches Spektakel. Wie in anderen seiner Schriften wendet sich Chesterton auch in diesem Roman theologisch-philosophischen Fragen zu.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936) war ein englischer Schriftsteller und Journalist. In seinen Romanen, Essays und Kurzgeschichten setzte sich Chesterton intensiv mit modernen Philosophien und Denkrichtungen auseinander. Bekannt sind seine oft gewagten Gedankensprünge und sein Zusammenbringen scheinbar unvereinbarer Ideen, oft mit überraschenden Ergebnissen.

• Sprache: Deutsch
• Herausgeber: e-artnow
• Erscheinungsdatum: 27. Dez. 2014
• ISBN: 9788026827399

G. K. Chesterton

G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936) was a prolific English journalist and author best known for his mystery series featuring the priest-detective Father Brown and for the metaphysical thriller The Man Who Was Thursday. Baptized into the Church of England, Chesterton underwent a crisis of faith as a young man and became fascinated with the occult. He eventually converted to Roman Catholicism and published some of Christianity’s most influential apologetics, including Heretics and Orthodoxy. 

Buchvorschau

Das erste Kapitel.

Die beiden Dichter von Saffron Park

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Der Vorort Saffron Park, der lag da hinaus, wo über London die Sonne unterzugehen pflegt. Und schaute auch grad so rot und genau so zerschlissen aus wie eine Wolke bei Sonnenuntergang. Durchweg aus knallrotem Backstein erbaut; von einer ganz schrullenhaften Silhouette und gleicherweise von einem überaus ungebärdigen Grundriß. Die Emanation eines spekulativen Baumeisters; eine dilettantische Vorspiegelung von Kunst; in einem Stil, der sich am liebsten – bald gotisch aus der Zeit der Königin Elizabeth und bald nach Queen Anne – nennen hörte… unter der Impression offenbar, daß diese beiden Herrscherinnen identisch wären … Saffron Park war mit einigem Recht als eine Künstlerkolonie verschrien, obschon hier niemals nach irgendeiner Richtung hin irgendwie Kunst produziert wurde. Jedennoch: waren Saffron Parks Prätentionen, ein geistig Zentrum darzustellen, auch ein wenig vage, so war seine Anwartschaft, als ein ulkiger Platz zu gelten, unbestreitbar. Der Fremde, der diese affektiert roten Häuser zum erstenmal sah, der dachte nur dieses: daß es schon ziemlich närrische Leut sein müßten, die es fertig brächten, da drinnen zu wohnen. Aber selbst wenn er das Völkchen dann kennen lernte, selbst dann brauchte er in diesem seinem vorgefaßten Respekt um nichts herunterzugehen. Der Ort war nicht nur ulkig, er war sogar vollendet, sobald du dich entschließen konntest, ihn nicht als eine Täuschung und einen Betrug, sondern als einen Traum anzusehen. Gleichwie, wenn die Leutchen auch keine »Künstler« waren, das ganze dessenungeachtet künstlerisch war … Jener junge Mann, mit dem langen, mehr roten als kastanienbraunen Haar und dem ausverschämten Gesicht – jener junge Mann war nicht so sehr und in der Tat ein Dichter: aber gewißlich war er ein Gedicht. Jener alte Gentleman, mit dem tollen weißen Bart und dem tollen weißen Hut – jener altehrwürdige Humbug war nicht so sehr und in der Tat ein Philosoph: aber wenigstens und nicht zuletzt gab er seinen Nebenmenschen Grund zu philosophieren. Und jener gelehrte Gentleman, mit dem kahlen eiähnlichen Schädel und dem nackten vogelähnlichen Hals, der hatte nicht das leiseste Recht auf das wissenschaftliche Gebaren, mit dem er großtat; nie noch hatte er in der Biologie irgend Neues dargestellt, aber welch eine biologische Ausgeburt stellte er selber dar! .. So also und nur so wollte der ganze Ort genommen werden. Nicht als eine Werkstatt für Künstler – als ein vergängliches, aber vollendetes Kunstwerk vielmehr. Wer immer in diese Gesellschaft geriet, der glaubte, in eine geschriebene Komödie geraten zu sein.

Vorzüglich ums Abendwerden und den Einbruch der Nacht überfiel Saffron Park diese reizende Unwirklichkeit: wenn die Extravaganz der Dächer verschwamm im Nachtglühen und das ganze verrückte Dorf wie eine einsam treibende Wolke wurde. Und noch vorzüglicher war das der Fall in jenen Nächten, da man irgendwie Feste feierte im Ort: wenn die kleinen Gärten illuminiert waren und die mächtigen chinesischen Laternen in den zwerghaften Bäumen erglühten wie viel manche wilde monströse Frucht. Oh und aber am allervorzüglichsten war das der Fall an jenem außergewöhnlichen Abend, an den etliche hierorts zurückdenken mögen wohl bis auf den heutigen Tag, an jenem außergewöhnlichen Abend, an dem der Dichter mit dem mehr roten als kastanienbraunen Haar der Held war. Nicht daß das etwa der einzige Abend gewesen wäre, an dem er der Held war. Wie denn? Gar in manchen Nächten mochten solche, die grad an seinem Hintergärtchen vorbeigingen, seine laute, lehrhafte Stimme gehört haben, wie sie in hohen, selbstbewußten Tönen zu Männlein und insonderheit zu Weiblein sang. Wobei die Attitüde der weiblichen Hörerschaft allemal und in der Tat eine der paradoxesten Paradoxien des Platzes war. Nämlich die meisten dieser Weiblein waren von jenen, so man ein wenig in Bausch und Bogen Emanzipierte nennt, und deren Bestimmung auf Erden gewissermaßen diese war: gegen die Suprematie des Mannes Protest zu erheben. Und gleichwohl zollten diese neuen Weiber dem Manne jene unerhörte Artigkeit, die kein gewöhnliches Weib je einem Manne gezollt: fein still zuzuhören, derweilen er spricht … Und Mr. Lucian Gregory, der rothaarige Poet, war in der Tat (in vielem Betracht) ein Mann, dem zuzuhören sichs wohl verlohnte, auch wenn einem letzten Endes nur ein Lachen blieb. Er sang die alte Leier wohl von der Gesetzlosigkeit der Kunst und der Kunst der Gesetzlosigkeit mit einer gewissen ausverschämten Neuheit, so daß du schließlich einen Augenblick Gefallen daran finden konntest. Und bis zu einem gewissen Grade kam ihm dabei die fesselnde Seltsamkeit seines Aeußeren zugute – staffierte ihn quasi dazu heraus. Sein wie nachgedunkeltes rotes und in der Mitte gescheiteltes Haar war buchstäblich wie das einer Frau und war so sterbenslangweilig gelockt, wie nur das einer Jungfrau auf einem präraphaelitischen Sonett in Wasserfarben. Und war sein Oval auch ein noch so heiligenmäßiges – dieses Gesicht fuhr mit einem Male breit und brutal heraus und das Kinn schoß hervor und war plötzlich eitel Hochmut und echter Londoner Großstadtdünkel. Dies beides in einem, dieses kitzelte die Nerven eines neurotischen Publikums angenehm und peitschte sie im selbigen Augenblick schrecklich auf. Er war die menschgewordene Blasphemie – eine Mischung aus Engel und Aff.

Dieser außergewöhnliche Abend also, der wird, wenn um weiter nichts, so doch um seines seltsamlichen Sonnenuntergangs willen in der Erinnerung so mancher des Ortes haften bleiben. Jener Sonnenuntergang, der sah sich grad an – als ob die Welt unterginge. Der ganze Himmel schien von einem wahren – handgreiflichen Federkleid bedeckt; du konntest es nicht anders sagen als: der Himmel war voller Federn und die Federn streiften dir fast das Gesicht. Ueber dem Dom waren sie grau, mit den absonderlichsten Schattierungen in Violett und Malvenfarben und einem widernatürlichen Hellrot oder Blaßgrün. Aber gegen Westen zu wurde alles über alle Beschreibung transparent und über alle Maßen wild und feurig, und die letzten rotglühenden Federn verhüllten die Sonne wie etwas, das nicht zum Anschauen taugt. Das Ganze war so nah an aller Erde –- als wollte es ein unendliches Geheimnis ausreden. Der ganze Feuerhimmel schien ein Geheimnis zu sein. Er explizierte jene glänzende Niedrigkeit, die die Seele des Lokalpatriotismus ist. Aller Himmel schien sehr sehr niedrig.

Sagte ich nicht, daß da welche sein mögen, die sich dieses Abends nur um eines überwältigenden Himmels willen erinnern werden? Es sind aber auch andere, die sich erinnern, weil an diesem Abend erstmalig der zweite Dichter von Saffron Park auftrat. Eine lange Zeit hatte der rothaarige Revolutionär ohne einen Rivalen geherrscht. Aber in der Nacht jenes Sonnenuntergangs war es, daß seine Alleinherrschaft jählings endete. Der neue Poet, der sich selber einführte und als Gabriel Syme vorstellte, war ein sehr mild dreinschauender Sterblicher, mit lieblichem und zugespitztem Bart und wenigem und gelbem Haar. Aber es half ihm etwas, daß er weniger sanftmütig erschien, als er mit den Augen dreinsah. Er machte sein Eintreten merkwürdig, indem er über die Dichtkunst überhaupt gerade der entgegengesetzten Meinung war als wie der eingesessene Poet Gregory. Er sagte, daß er (Syme) ein Dichter von Gesetz sei, ein Dichter von Ordnung; ja sogar, er sagte, er wäre ein respektierlicher Dichter. Also daß ihn die Saffron Parker all anstarrten, als ob er eben diesen Moment aus jenem unmöglichen Himmel herabgefallen sei. Und richtig, Mr. Lucian Gregory, der anarchistische Poet, brachte die beiden Geschehnisse sofort in einen Konnex.

»Es mag wohl sein«, sagte er in seiner unvermutet lyrischen Manier, »es mag wohl sein in einer solchen Nacht der Wolken und himmelschreienden Farben, daß da plötzlich solch ein ahnungsvoller respektierlicher Poet uns zur Welt gekommen ist. Sie sagen, Sie seien ein Dichter von Gesetz. Ich sage – Sie sind eine ›contradictio in adjecto‹. Wundere mich nur, daß nicht gleich auch Kometen schweiften und die Erde erbebte in der Nacht, da Sie in diesem Garten erschienen.« Der Mann mit den himmelblauen Augen und dem blassen gespitzten Bart ertrug dies Donnerwetter mit einer gewissen submissen Feierlichkeit. Die dritte Person von der Gruppe, Gregorys Schwester Rosamond, mit roten Haarflechten wie ihr Bruder, aber einem kindlich-liebenswürdigeren Antlitz darunter, die lachte ihr Lachen halb voller Bewunderung und halb voller Mißbilligung, das sie stets lachte zu ihrem Familienorakel.

Gregory resümierte hoch oratorisch und bei guter Laune.

»Ein Artist ist identisch mit einem Anarchisten«, schrie er. »Transponieren Sie das Wort wie Sie nur wollen. Ein Anarchist ist ein Artist. Der Mann, der eine Bombe wirft, ist ein Artist, weil er einen großen Moment allem andern vorzieht. Er erkennt, um wieviel kostbarer ein Strahl des Feuerleuchtens einer Explosion, ein Ohrvoll vom Krach eines richtigen Donners wiegt als ein Korps von krüppeligen Policemen. Ein Artist ignoriert alle Regierung, bricht mit aller Konvention. Der Poet entflammt sich einzig am Chaos. Wenn dem nicht so wäre, dann wäre das poetischste Ding von der Welt die Untergrundbahn.«

»Dem ist so«, sagte Mr. Syme.

»Blödsinn!« sagte Gregory, der sehr vernunftgemäß tat, sowie ein anderer etwas Paradoxes versuchte. »Warum schauen all die Schreiber und Kanalarbeiter in den Eisenbahnen so verdrießlich und ermüdet, so sehr verdrossen und ermattet aus – warum? Ich wills Ihnen sagen. Darum, weil sie wissen, daß der Zug richtig fährt. Darum, weil sie wissen, daß, für was für eine Station sie immer ein Billett gelöst haben mögen … daß sie diese Station erreichen werden. Darum, weil … nachdem sie Sloan Square passiert haben … weil sie wissen, daß die nächste Station Viktoria sein muß – und nichts und nichts und nichts als Viktoria. Oh, oh, denken Sie sich nur mal diese tolle Verzückung! Wie ihre Augen zu Sternen würden und ihre Seelen neu im Paradiese wandelten, wenn die nächste Station auf ganz unerklärliche Weise mit einemmal Baker Street wäre!«

»Sie sind es, Sie, die unpoetisch sind«, erwiderte der Poet Syme. »Wenn das wahr ist, was Sie von jenen Bureauangestellten sagen, so sind diese nur ebenso prosaisch wie Ihre Poesie. Das Feine, Unerhörte, das triff; – das Rohe, Alltägliche, das fehl! Wir fühlen, es ist heroisch, wenn der Mensch mit einem kühnen Pfeil einen weit entfernten Vogel trifft. Ja, ist es denn nicht ebenso heroisch, wenn ein Mensch mit Hilfe eines kühnen Dampfrosses eine weit entfernte Bahnstation nicht verfehlt? Alles Chaos ist trostlos; weil ja im Chaos der Zug in der Tat ganz und gar irgendwo hinfahren würde, nach Baker Street oder nach Bagdad. Aber der Mensch ist ein Magier; und all seine Magie ist diese: er sagt Viktoria und sieh da, sieh da! es ist Viktoria. Nein, nein, nein, nein, behalten Sie fein Ihre Bücher von all Ihrer Poesie und Prosa – und lassen Sie mir meinen Eisenbahnfahrplan, lassen Sie mich ihn lesen unter Tränen der Rührung und des Stolzes. Behalten Sie nur bloß Ihren Byron, der die Schlappen der Menschheit feiert; und geben Sie mir das Kursbuch, darin auf Stunde und Minute der Menschheit Siege verzeichnet stehen. Geben Sie mir das Kursbuch, bitte, so geben Sie es doch her!«

»Fahren Sie fort?« fragte Gregory sarkastisch.

»Ich sage Ihnen, ich sage Ihnen«, fuhr Syme mit Eifer fort, »daß ich allemal, sowie ein Zug ankommt, fühle, fühle: daß er Breschen schlug in die Belagerer – fühle, fühle: der Mensch erfocht einen neuen Sieg über das Chaos. Sie schätzen es gering, Sie halten es für mehr als selbstverständlich, daß einer, wenn einer Sloan Square verlassen hat, nach Viktoria kommen muß. Ich aber sage Ihnen: daß einer statt dessen tausend andere Dinge tun könnte … und daß ich allemal, wenn ich wirklich dahin gelange, das Gefühl habe: ich bin mit knapper Not davongekommen. Und wenn ich den Schaffner sodann »Viktoria« schreien höre, so klingt das absolut nicht so mir nichts dir nichts. Da schreit für mich, da schreit für mein Gefühl ein Herold: Sieg. Das klingt für mich in der Tat: »Viktoria, Viktoria!« Da siegt Adam, Adam!«

Gregory schüttelte sein schweres rotes Haupt und lächelte verdrossen und kläglich.

»Und dann«, sagte er, »dann fragen wir Poeten immer die Frage: ›Ja was ist denn dieses Viktoria nun, das wir da haben? Hm?‹ Sie meinen, Viktoria, das sei Neu-Jerusalem. Wir aber wissen, daß Neu-Jerusalem nur wieder – Viktoria sein wird. Der Poet wird sogar auf den Wegen im Himmel noch der Mißvergnügte sein. Der Poet ist ewig in Revolte.«

»Dorten wieder«, sagte Syme, »was ist dorten poetisch, um in Revolte zu sein? Da könnten Sie ebensogut behaupten, es sei poetisch, seekrank zu sein. Krank sein, das ist eine Revolte. Beides: krank sein und rebellisch sein, das mag in gewissen desparaten Lebenslagen gesund sein. Aber ich will gehängt sein, wenn ich einsehen soll, warum sie poetisch sein sollen. Empörung – abstrakt – ist – einfach – empörend. Es ist rein zum Kotzen.«

Das Mädchen fuhr leicht zusammen bei diesem gemeinen Ausdruck. Aber Syme war zu sehr in der Hitze, um sich vor ihr zusammenzunehmen.

»Das Richtiggehende«, schrie er, »das – das ist das Poetische! Unsere Verdauung – zum Beispiel – daß die fein still und wie fromm vor sich geht: das ist die Grundlage aller Poesie. Ei ja, die poetischste Sache, poetischer als alle Blumen sind und poetischer als alle Sterne, die poetischste Sache von der Welt ist: … nicht krank sein.« »Wahrhaftig«, sprach Gregory da hochnäsig, »die Beispiele, so Sie zu wählen belieb –«

»Bitt um Verzeihung«, tat Syme grimmig, »aber ich vergaß ganz, daß wir alle und jede Konvention perhorresziert hatten.«

Und da wardst du einen brennroten Fleck gewahr auf Gregorys Stirn …

»Sie scheinen mir demnach nicht zu glauben«, sagte er, »daß ich, diesem Gesetz zufolge, die bürgerliche Gesellschaft umwälze?«

Syme schaute ihm dreist ins Gesicht und lächelte süß:

»Nein«, sagte er, »absolut nicht«, sagte er, »außer … ich meine … außer es wäre Ihnen ernst um Ihren Anarchismus: dann ja … dann …«

Gregorys ungeheure Glotzaugen leuchteten plötzlich wie bei einem zornigen Löwen auf – und dir mochte beinah scheinen, als ob seine rote Mähne sich sträubte.

»Sie glauben also nicht«, fuhr ein Drohen und Dräuen in seine Stimme, »daß es mir ernst um meinen Anarchismus ist?«

»Bitte?« sagte Syme.

»Mir nicht ernst um meinen Anarchismus?« schrie Gregory und ballte seine knotigen Fäuste.

»Lieber, verehrter Kollege!« sagte Syme – und verließ ihn.

Ueberrascht, aber auch voller Neugierde und Vergnügen bemerkte er da, daß Rosamond Gregory mit ihm ging.

»Mr. Syme«, sprach sie, »meinen die Leute, die so wie Sie und mein Bruder reden, meinen die oft auch wirklich, was sie sagen? Meinen Sie denn, was Sie jetzt sagen?«

Syme lächelte:

»Wie meinen Sie?«

»Was meinen Sie?« fragte das Mädchen … und Ihre Augen waren tief …

»Meine teuere Miß Gregory«, sagte Syme verbindlich, »es gibt Aufrichtigkeit und es gibt Unaufrichtigkeit. Es gibt aber auch solche Aufrichtigkeit und solche – und solche Unaufrichtigkeit und andere. Wenn Sie für das Salzfaß etwa ›danke‹ sagen: meinen Sie da auch, was Sie sagen? Nein. Wenn Sie sagen: ›die Welt ist rund‹: meinen Sie da auch, was Sie sagen? Nein. Es ist allemal etwas Wahres; – aber Sie meinen es nicht. Nun denn: ein Mann wie Ihr Bruder findet zuweilen in der Tat ein Ding, das er meint. Es braucht nur ein halbwahr, viertelwahr, zehntelwahr Ding zu sein; aber dann sagt er mehr als er meint – vor lauter Meinen-müssen.«

Sie sah ihn, unter wagrecht eingestellten Brauen hervor, an. Tief und offen lag ihr Antlitz da, überschattet von dem Schatten jenes vernunftlosen Verantwortlichkeitsgefühls, das die Seele selbst des leichtfertigsten Frauenzimmers noch ausmacht: jenes Bemuttern-müssen um jeden Preis, das so alt ist wie die Welt selber.

»Ist er also wahrhaftig ein Anarchist?« fragte sie. »Nur in jenem Sinn, von dem ich Ihnen sprach«, antwortete Syme, »oder wenn Sie lieber wollen – in jenem Unsinn.«

Sie zog die breiten Augenbrauen zusammen und sagte abrupt:

»Er würde nie wirklich Bomben schmeißen oder so was –«

Brach Syme in ein groß Lachen aus, das viel zu groß war für sein kleines einigermaßen stutzerhaftes Gesicht.

»Herr Jesus, nein!« sagte er, »es müßten denn Fruchtbonbons sein.«

Danach formte sich in den Winkeln ihres Mundes gleichfalls ein Lächeln … und sie erinnerte sich mit einem zwiefachen Vergnügen teils an Gregorys Ungereimtheiten, teils an sein Wohlergehen …

Und dann steuerte Syme mit ihr auf eine Sitzgelegenheit los, in einer Ecke des Gartens, und hub neu an, von seinen Meinungen zu verbreiten. Denn er war ein aufrichtiger Bursche, und ohngeachtet seines oberflächlichen Gebarens und Kokettierens im Grunde ein bescheidener Junge.

Und es ist immer der Bescheidene, der zuviel redet; der Hoffärtige, der überwacht sich selber viel zu sehr. Also verteidigte er die Respektabilität mit Ungestüm und manniger Uebertreibung. Und wurde hitzig im Rühmen von Nettigkeit und Anstand. Und all die Zeit schwamm Fliederduft um ihn … Mit einmal hörte er sehr schwach von fernher aus einer Straße, daß eine Drehorgel zu singen anhub, und es war ihm, als ob seine heroische Rede eine liebliche Weise gebar von unter oder außer der Welt her …

Und er sah sie an und er sang zu ihr: zu ihrem roten Haar und zu ihrem amüsierten Gesicht – minutenlang wohl. Aber dann, wie ihm einfiel, daß es doch nicht schicklich wäre an einem solchen Ort, ein Plaudergrüppchen auf so lange auszudehnen – da sprang er auf. Und ersah zu seinem Erstaunen: der ganze Garten leer. Ein jeder war längst schon gegangen, und so ging er nun selber auch – mit einer ziemlich übereilten Entschuldigung. Ging – – als wie mit Champagnerwein im Kopf, ein Gefühl, für das er nie eine Erklärung fand … An all den wilden Geschehnissen, die jetzund folgen werden, hatte das Mädchen nicht den geringsten Anteil. Er sah sie auch nimmermehr wieder, ganz bis zu allem Ende all dieser seiner Erlebnisse. Und dennoch, dennoch: – auf irgendeine unbeschreibliche Weise kehrte sie ihm immer wieder, tauchte sie ihm immer und immer wieder auf, wie ein musikalisches Leitmotiv durch all die folgenden wahnsinnigen Aventüren, und die Glorie ihres seltsamlichen Haares spann sich leuchtend so wie ein roter Faden durch all den geheimnisvollen und unheimlichen Gobelin dieser Nacht. Alles was von nun an geschah, oh das war all so unwahrscheinlich, daß es gar wohl nur ein Traum hätte sein können …

Als Syme auf die sternhelle Straße heraustrat, fand er sie erst leer. Dann vergegenwärtigte er sich (auf eine gewisse absonderliche Manier), daß die Stille weit eher eine lebendige Stille war denn eine tote. Unmittelbar vor dem Tor, da stand eine Straßenlaterne, und ihr Strahl vergoldete das Blattwerk des Baumes, der über den Zaun hinter ihm sich herüberneigte und herausverbeugte. Und einen Schritt weit von dem Laternenpfahl, da hielt eine Gestalt, so steif und starr wie der Laternenpfahl selber. Der kühne Hut und der zweireihige Gehrock mit Schößen, die waren schwarz. Das Gesicht, steil überschattet, nicht minder dunkel. Nur eine Franse brennroten Haars in der Helle und etwas Aggressives in der Haltung, das verriet; es war der Dichter Gregory. Und hatte etwas von einem Bravo mit einer Maske über dem Gesicht, wie er mit einem Mordstahl in der Hand auf seinen Feind wartet.

Und grüßte einen immerhin bedenklichen Gruß. Worauf Syme um ein etzliches förmlicher zurückgrüßte.

»Ich hab auf Sie gewartet«, sagte Gregory, »könnte ich Sie in einer Angelegenheit sprechen?«

»Gewiß … In welcher?« fragte Syme ein wenig erstaunt.

Gregory schlug mit seinem Spazierstock erst gegen den Laternenpfosten und dann gegen den Baum.

»In dieser und in dieser da«, schrie er; »über Gesellschaftsordnung und über Anarchismus. Das da, das ist Ihre unschätzbare Ordnung: diese schiefe eiserne Funsel, diese ekelhafte

Rezensionen für Der Mann, der Donnerstag war - Ein Komplott anarchistischer Terroristen

[sprite_2 · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

This is a heck of a book. Do not shelve it next to The Iron Dragon's Daughter because I think they would annihilate each other or something.

[electrascaife · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

A poet who is converted by Scotland Yard into an undercover policeman trying to take down a group of elite anarchists finds himself thick in their midst, elected to their top council of seven leaders, each going by the name of a different day of the week. As his adventure unfolds, Syme (aka Thursday) begins to question not only his own role in the drama, but the very fabric of the world.
Whoa, this was one crazy ride. I'm not certain that I completely understand what's going on in here, but I do know that it's a complete hoot. Think The Prisoner meets a darker, more urbane Narnia.

[fiddleback_ · Bewertung: 2 von 5 Sternen]

A brilliant book?

[pastorbob_1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

At first, I was a little unsure of what I was reading. I'd missed the subtitle 'A Nightmare'. But in a short time the tone of the book, and its brilliant humour become, more clear. In the moment comes the delight. The recruitment of those who become what they think they're supposed to oppose, in order to stop it, only to discover they all share in that task, that none of them are who they thought, and that even the real opponent is not who they assumed; the impossibility of appearances at telling the truth, and our own personal vulnerability at seeing what is true; the experience of being pursued as something you are, or might not be, when the truth of a situation is lost to opinions and perspectives and conjecture: all these are the foundation of the nightmare.

There is a role we're to play in the world: what if someone confused and scuttled it, or rendered the task impossible to really discern? What if reality and God Himself were somehow disguised beyond our description, and we had no bearings among our peers left? A clever depiction, perhaps, of the horror the secular world has brought.

Some spectacular quotes lie within for whomever is willing to see the truth ;-p

[carl_alves_1 · Bewertung: 2 von 5 Sternen]

I simply didn’t understand this novel. From the beginning to the very end, there was almost no logic in this novel, and the ending was completely nonsensical. For starters, the character of Syme is more concerned about his Word that he gave to an anarchist than saving lives. Six different characters in this novel all think they’re working for the police against the anarchists solely on the basis of a conversation with a shadowy man that they can’t see and who has no identification. If they were truly working for the police, wouldn’t they have some official training, documents to sign, etc. Not to mention, if they were on an undercover assignment, wouldn’t they be alerted to other police that are operating on the same exact undercover assignment? Not to mention, why would you need so many police officers operating undercover to take down the same organization?

The ending was a complete headscratcher. I couldn’t make heads or tails of not only the ending, but what actually happened in the novel. If you could make some sense of it, then more power to you. For me, this was a waste of my time reading it, and based on the reviews, a very overrated novel that I would recommend skipping.

Carl Alves – author of Battle of the Soul

[meredy_1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

A note in the front of my paperback copy of this 1908 novel says 2/16/1967. That's when I bought it, and soon afterward I enjoyed a first reading. A few years later I reread it with the same pleasure. And then it sat in the hidden second tier of a shelf among hundreds of other books for at least four decades, until something sent me looking for it about a month ago. Amazingly, I was able to go right to it. Hurray: I haven't yet lost that store-and-retrieve connection. I'll be in trouble when I do, because there's nothing overtly systematic about my system. I usually find things by snapshot visual memory.

But as to the story, all I recalled was the main setup of the plot, namely, that a man named Syme infiltrates an anarchists' cell whose members have as code names the days of the week. The anarchists set off on a mission to prevent the prevention of a planned bombing incident. Our main character plays along while trying to think of ways to foil it himself.

Then, 7/8 of the way through this short (194-page) novel, it suddenly turns metaphysical. In fact, we begin to see that it has been allegorical all along, even though the fantastic element had seemed well anchored in a recognizable terrestrial reality. It has been so long since I last read this that it surprised me; so I guess what was memorable about it was less its own particulars than the fact that I enjoyed it so long ago.

Now it seems to me a bit manipulative, although not crudely so, and treats of themes that I am well tired of meeting as if by ambush around shadowy corners.

But this is not the fault of the book, which is unchanged--indeed, demonstrably so, for I am reading the selfsame edition that I purchased more than 40 years ago. This is one way that a book or movie or memento or landmark can be a mirror to us: if we know that it is a constant, then our altered perception of or response to it denotes a change in ourselves. In the case of this novel, I felt as if I had been conned, and yet at the same time it's hard not to feel elevated as well, even from the point in the story where the balloon goes aloft. Chesterton achieves his transformation competently and respectably, and the element of mystery still enchants.

I just don't think I'll be going along with it again. There's too much left that I've never read at all.

A sampling of passages that I liked:

Through all this ordeal his root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one. That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy. (page 89)

[Syme speaking] "Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front..." (page 176)

The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite. For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon. (page 183)

When I first listed this book in my library, I rated it five stars based on the old memory. Now I find it very hard to rate, never mind classify; but I settled on three and a half stars just to hold as consistently as possible to my own ratings values. I would still recommend this book, though, to any reader who likes to think about things from different angles.

[m.belljackson · Bewertung: 2 von 5 Sternen]

The author's vivid descriptions of scenery and settings, as well as certain philosophy, make for memorable reading.

The plot moves along with intriguing mystery and excitement, then becomes redundant and thoroughly improbable, but worse, boring.

[tloeffler_3 · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

I do love Chesterton's writing, but this one got away from me a little bit. I had difficulty following the characters (could have been a personal problem).
Gabriel Syme, poet & undercover detective, meets a man on the street, and after challenging him about his supposed anarchism, follows him to a meeting of anarchists. Somehow, Gabriel ends up being voted to the "grand council" of anarchists, all of whom are named after the days of the week. Gabriel becomes Thursday, and finds himself caught between planning a bombing and, of course, the fact that he is a policeman. The story gets more and more bizarre and convoluted, often hilarious, until towards the end, when I found it a mess.
But it wasn't long, and I'm glad I read it.

[praj05_1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

‘Humanity crushed once again’. ‘50 dead, 120 injured’. ‘Grave face of terror strikes again’. Familiar headlines scream through the pages of the newspapers each time a bomb goes off annihilating blameless lives. Through teeth gritting resilience, public outcry resonates through the deafened ears of failed intelligence and faith in the state’s law and order hangs by a thin string. As the weeks pass by rapid sketches of the alleged bombers, email links, forensic reports, collected evidence from the attacked ground and pictures of rehabilitating victims are splashed across the dailies. If by any chance the investigation comes through, anonymous visages covered with black rags are photographed outside the courtroom, readied for trial procedures, which may go on for months, maybe even years. As the days go by, life returns to normalcy (yes! It is a tricky word); everything is forgotten and the news fade until once again “humanity is crushed” by another dastardly attack. The analytical carnival starts once again. This is the time I dearly wish we had ‘philosophical policemen’ just like Chesterton describes in his book. Policemen- (officers of law), who would discover the book of sonnets and verses from where the crimes will be committed; those that recognize the intricate web of intellectual crimes. The derivation of dreadful thoughts- the human mind, so malicious and calculating camouflaged within an affluent, composed and erudite exterior. It is that very egocentric brainpower which churns out sadistic alterations from harmless verses and then picks vulnerable actors to craft that design into realism.

“Evil philosopher is not trying to alter things but to annihilate them”.

This book is more than a mere plot of undercover detectives and their clandestine exploration of the Secret anarchist Councilmen. Chesterton pens that a small time criminal is more of a good person. His aim is to eradicated only a certain obstacle and not annihilate the edifice. What caught my eye in one of the chapters was the elucidation of stereotyping poverty to rebellious festering.

“You’ve got that eternal idiotic ides that if anarchy came it would come from the poor. Why should it? The poor been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn’t; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all. Aristocrats are always anarchists; as you can see from the baron’s wars”.

When a bomber or an active terrorist is caught, he mostly turns out to be from an impoverished background, where his ravenous mind and mislaid faith is manipulated to find refuge in an illusionary godly abode. These are mere actors for crying out loud, chosen by the scheming selfish elements who are coward enough to remain behind the backstage curtains. The affluent as elucidated in this narration are the ones to be feared. They have an abundance of monetary resources, have sheltering capacity in far away lands, if need be and have a mind that concocts the unexpected. Where do you think the enormous funds come for fertilizing terror? I do not want elucidate detailed reports of various pathways of monetary funds wired to definite cults or “charitable” institutions that ultimately fund the immoral actions. But, the currency sure is not a bequest from the poor or some excise complements from our paychecks. The respective courtesy comes from those societal fundamentals that remain unscathed or unfazed by decree. Who do you suppose manages the advanced scientific technologies in various bombing devices? The knowledgeable elite, isn’t it? The erudite or should I say the crème de la crème of religious preachers who instead of spreading peace and equality manipulates vulnerable populace digging their raw wounds every time through words that revolt in their bleeding wounds? I could go on and on, as it angers me to see such naivety among the elements of law and order or purposefully turning a blind eye on the so-called modernists who may be responsible in concocting the ongoing mayhem of lawlessness. Why couldn’t there be some ‘philosophical policemen’ here in India or any place that incessantly plays the role of a powerless victim?

Chapter 4- The Tale of the Detective is the deciding chapter that outlines infinitesimal details of who Gabriel Syme really is. Syme sneaks his way into a clandestine council of seven men, each named after a day of the week. Syme becomes the inevitable Thursday though a pact he made with Lucian Gregory ,a poet and a true anarchist. Fear catches with Syme as his path deepens into the sinister world of the other six council men; the President being the most feared of all. Chesterton throws a light on various aspects of fear that thrives within and outside us. We rebel against the only side that corrupts us. What makes a mutineer and destroy the very notion of survival? We try and run from fear and pain, until one eventually catches up and makes us susceptible to uncouth rudiments that shelter our mental nakedness. It is the most treacherous survival, if every time we need proof of familiarity to feel safe. When fear caught up with Syme suffocating his senses, he would feel protected only if a blue card ( a source of identification given to every policemen in England) was shown to him. How vulnerable was Syme to live in a world of treachery and deceit? Makes me think of all the trepidation we feel every time we walk outside our homes or travel; the security checks, the sense of familiarity that we seek in bloodcurdling situations, the proof of safety that we search or reveal; spins a web of utter vulnerability that looms within the safest corners of our thoughts. The Man Who Was Thursday is a treasure that needs to be dug up by reading between the lines of a puzzling narrative to know what Chesterton is really saying.

“Revolt in its abstract can be revolting. It is like vomiting.”

Lastly, if everything leads to God and when nature if dissected reveals the face of God, then should I assume that evil is illusionary? Is malevolence the creation of couple menacing minds? If God means endurance then why is such mutinous extermination carried in God’s name after all?

[kant1066 · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

This review contains spoilers.

This was originally published in 1908 when Chesterton, one of the greatest Christian apologists of the first third of the twentieth century, was still a Protestant. He wouldn’t convert to Catholicism until the 1920s. Yet even as a Protestant, he had managed to do some wonderful writing, including “Orthodoxy,” his classic defense of the inner workings of Christian faith. However, I found this book to be less successful. The characters were so obviously meant to be symbols of something above and beyond themselves that it comes across more as a fable (or, as the subtitle has it, a “nightmare”) than a realist novel.

The main struggle Chesterton presents – relentlessly forced down your throat until you almost can’t bear it anymore – is that of anarchy versus order. Gabriel Syme (paladin of law and order) is a member of the Scotland Yard division that keeps an eye on political anarchists. He meets Gregory, an anarchist, at a party where they discuss what makes poetry poetic. Is it law, rationality, and reason – or disorder and anarchy? Syme suggests that Gregory is only a tongue-in-cheek anarchist, since he rightfully claims that total anarchy would never be able to accomplish its political goals. Gregory counters by offering to take Syme to an underground anarchist meeting to show him that they really do exist.

The rest proceeds almost predictably: we find that one member after another of the anarchist council is also working undercover as a member for the Scotland Yard. In fact, of the seven members (each named after a day of the week), five of them are discovered to be police officers. The first time or two this is surprising; by the fifth time, I was almost rolling my eyes. By the end, we find out that not even the leader of the group, Sunday, is an anarchist. Instead, he too has been a force for good.

In the end, everything comes off sounding like a paean to reason and rationality, but the message comes off as both heavy-handed and confused, as difficult as that is to imagine. Maybe it was the overt force of the message mixed with the phantasmagoric style on top of the need for Chesterton to turn absolutely into a symbol with some latent meaning. There were just too many things he was trying to do here, and none of them come off with any virtuosity.

[smiley_13 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

Unusual. A book that suprised me to the very end. That hasn't happened in a long time. Allegorical detective story where evil unmasked from goodness @ the end of a "normal" detective story is completely reversed when good is unmasked from an evil person.

The man who was Thursday is a Scotland Yard detective that infiltrates the grand European Council of Anachists. It is revealed, eventually, that all the members on the council are undercover policemen. There is order instead of anarchy and, Sunday, president of the council is the same man that sent the undercover detectives on their mission. There is only one anarchist character. There is much Christian allegory and the annotated edition by Martin Gardner, from Ignatius Press is helpful. Not sure I still understand it. A healthy challange.

[janesteen_1 · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

When The Man Who Was Thursday was first published, in 1907, the big terrorist threat came from anarchists, who threw bombs and assassinated people for a variety of complicated reasons. They turn up quite regularly in the literature of the time, quite often as vague caricatures representing some kind of destructive force or forces of evil. This is the case in The Man Who Was Thursday, where Chesterton uses the anarchists to represent all that is negative in the world, and doesn't tie them in to any particular political movement.

The book's an allegory, so no character can be taken at its face value--and to complicate matters, within the novel every character is revealed to be quite different from what he seems. (This is almost exclusively a male tale, born of a society where the men of the English ruling class were expected to move in men-only circles from an early age, through boarding school to clubs to Parliament.)

The plot is relatively straightforward: the poet Sykes infiltrates a group of anarchists nicknamed according to the days of the week (Sykes is Thursday). He is co-opted into the anti-anarchist police by a mysterious personage whom he meets in a completely dark room. The anarchists are led by a larger-than-life, terrifying character called Sunday.

The book has a repeating pattern of wild chases and moments of revelation that build on one another to become funnier as the plot thickens. For this is a comedy, although a subtle and disturbing one. I'd hate to spoil the book for you by explaining exactly what's going on, but I can say that terror alternates with relief and a sense of the ridiculous. The climax of the book is quite thrilling and profound. The novel's subtitle, A Nightmare, may give you a hint about the plot's strange shifts and reverses.

If you ever liked the Narnia books, you'll like Thursday, which in some ways is the adult counterpart to C.S. Lewis's books. One day I will go through my bookshelves and make a special section for books that deserve to be re-read at intervals during my life; this book will make the cut.

There are many different editions of Thursday: the one I read was published by Ignatius Press, edited by Martin Gardner. I did not particularly like the edition, which was idiosyncratic and self-serving. There must be a better one out there.

[lisashapter · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

A book about how to be good in a world that may not be.

A brilliant book -- read it instantly.

Superb plot, stunning writing, gives you Chesterton's patented ethical vertigo when you begin to wonder whether he hates anarchists or sympathizes with them. (This was the era of the Haymarket riot.)

Unlike C.S. Lewis' Narnia books (a pale shadow compared to this work) you do not have to be Christian to enjoy the depth and power of this book.

Very, very highly recommended. (And very influential on later Fantasy.)

[jamesabdulla · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

It would probably be best to get hit by a bus just before you get to the end of this book. Tense chase sequences and a quickly increasing desire to find out exaclty what is going on are let down by the ridiculous half baked ending.
A good yarn but the exciting romp through europe and london only lead to disapointment and a little bit of anger.

[alana_leigh_6 · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

On the cover of The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare, there's a sentence from a review by Kingsley Amis where he calls this book "The most thrilling book I have ever read." Clearly, strong recommendations from well-known authors can be a powerful selling tool, but I'll admit, it was the rest of the cover that sold me on this book. You can't always judge by it, sure, but you can certainly be reeled in by an attractive one. Look at this! Can you feel the energy? It's a small little volume, too, but on paper that's more appealing than the usual mass-market paperback. The crisp white and the stark black and red... Hats off to the art department at Penguin. Something about this small volume called to me and after reading the back cover description, I knew this was going to be good.

The best way that I've found to describe this book is that it feels like you're reading a car chase. In a good way. No, the whole book is not a car chase (though there is a car chase at one point), but it's a fantastic thriller that had me riveted as it raced through twists and turns in the plot, which featured poets, anarchy, and the question of what makes reality.

G.K. Chesterton published this book in 1908 and it opens on the meeting of two poets in turn of the century London -- Lucian Gregory and Gabriel Syme. Gregory loses his temper when Syme suggests that Gregory is not a true anarchist. So to prove his commitment to anarchy, Gregory extracts a vow of silence from Syme and then takes him to a secret meeting of anarchists... only to find (after Syme requests a similar promise from Gregory) that Syme is part of a secret anti-anarchy group of Scotland Yard. The two are at an impasse, unable to expose the other, and so Gregory is completely at a loss when Syme gives a rousing speech at the meeting and the secret agent is elected to serve as the local representative (called "Thursday") on the worldwide Central Council of Anarchists. And this is only the beginning as Syme joins the Council and meets its president, Sunday, who comes to represent all that Syme is battling against in this world.

Wikipedia will tell you that Adam Gopnik ran a piece in The New Yorker which described this book as "one of the hidden hinges of twentieth-century writing, the place where, before our eyes, the nonsense-fantastical tradition of Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear pivots and becomes the nightmare-fantastical tradition of Kafka and Borges." Even 101 years later, I could feel that this was that missing literary link that finally made me understand how the jump to writing and appreciating Kafka's work was made possible. That tradition of literature was never my focus, and I feel that had I been asked to read this before Kafka in school, I could have found a more coherent place for it in the sequence of literary styles. I had always been dissatisfied with explanations of how Kafka brought forth such a surreal narrative, fully-formed in its own unique style, a man suddenly made insect. I knew there must have been some premonitory clue, and here I feel as though I've stumbled upon something that makes that a little clearer. Though it seems amusing to use the term "clarity" here, as the simultaneous trust in and distrust of reality is what makes it all terrifying/fascinating.

Oh, and it might be narcissistic, but I'm always going to have a small affinity for a book that treats redheads with respect. There's a fantastic line that you can bet I'll remember: "My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world." Awesome. And I'll leave you with an early paragraph where Syme is speaking with Gregory's sister that I particularly enjoyed:

He stared and talked at the girl's red hair and amused face for what seemed to be a few minutes; and then, feeling that the groups in such a place should mix, rose to his feet. To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow, this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night. For what followed was so improbable that it might well have been a dream.

[stephenbarkley · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

You've got to be curious about any book described as a "surreal anarchist fantasy" (Wordsworth edition introduction). I was pleased to find the classic wit of Chesterton on every page.

This book's paradoxical. Chesterton's writing is expansive and leisurely, yet the pace of the mystery is breathtaking at times. It's difficult to find a writer who can make paragraph length blocks of dialogue come alive so effortlessly.

The plot itself is very curious. The story's about a group of seven anarchists (named after the days of the week), who have been infiltrated by a spy from Scotland Yard. I hesitate to share any more lest I give too much of the plot away. By the last couple chapters, I found myself questioning how Chesterton could possibly bring such a tale a fitting conclusion without being predictable. He exceeded my expectations. I'll return to that last chapter more than once to let it sink in.

Chesterton's at his best: relaxing and thrilling, silly and profound. The entire narrative is laced with Christian symbolism that comes to a poignant theological head without sounding preachy. This is a great summer read.

[zathras86 · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

The question "What is your favorite book?" has always been impossible for me to answer, but this is the only book I have ever felt comfortable defaulting to. I've read it at least a half a dozen times since I discovered a copy of it in a used bookstore when I was in middle school; I will probably reread it a dozen more in the next ten years. I get something different out of it every time I reread it.

The story itself makes no sense, until you come back to the subtitle: A Nightmare. Like a dream, or a nightmare, there is a thread of sense beneath the nonsense, and the mad escapades of the Supreme Anarchist Council are some how more deeply real even in their absurdity. One could call the story a parable, or a fable, but like the costumes worn by the protagonists toward the end of the book, the disguised elements of the story serve only to reveal more of its inner truth.

This book is full of great quotes and is one of the finer examples of Chesterton's witty and unique style of storytelling. Like quite a lot of his fiction, it is a story with Christian meaning woven into it; it's not necessary to be a practicing Christian to understand or get something out of the story, but some of the allegory may escape a reader who is unfamiliar with the basics of the book of Genesis.

When I finish this book I always feel a little bit bewildered, sort of mentally out of breath. I usually end up reading it in one or two sittings, propelled irresistibly toward the fantastic (in the original sense of the word) conclusion.This book defies genre, plot summary, and most attempts at interpretation, so all I can say is that you should read it for yourself, and see what you make of it.

[theboltchick · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

This book is part thriller, part fantasy, and even part comedy. It is certainly a strange combination, and not always successful.
The was written during a time of anarchist bombings in London, and takes the core idea of the plot from those events. Detective Syme is assigned by Scotland Yard to infiltrate a group of anarchists. Each man is named for a day of the week. As he gets to know the men, he begins to fear for his safety. But the more he learns, the more he realizes none of them are exactly what they appear to be on the surface.
The complete title of this novella is The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare. I think one must keep that in mind when reading, as the events and situations can come at the reader at near breakneck speed.
The book's ending was a bit disappointing, but overall I will give this one 3-1/2 stars.

[soylentgreen23 · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

A detective inflitrates a gang of anarchists in London, cunningly gaining entry to the super-secretive 'Council of Days', led by the godly Sunday. His mission: to prevent a plot to blow up the Czar on his visit to Paris.

The first half of the book is an exciting tale of wit and invention, but soon the tale becomes grossly absurd; the climax is surely allegorical but for me it was greatly unsatisfying, especially considering all the drama that had led to it.

[isabelx_21 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

'You spoke of a second question,' snapped Gregory. 
'With pleasure,' resumed Syme. 'In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living for preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?'
Gregory smiled.
'The answer is simple,' he said. 'I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do they believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me.'

First published in 1908, "The Man Who Was Thursday" is the story of secret policeman Gabriel Syme's infiltration of an anarchist gang and election to its ruling council whose code names are taken from the days of the week. The subtitle says it all really, as the events become more and more dreamlike as the story progresses, and less and less like a real world spy story.

[extrajoker · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

first line: "The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset."

I love Chesterton's language: from brilliantly witty dialogue to perfect visual descriptions. While social philosophy is not something about which I'd generally read, I love how this book presents it. Chesteron sublimates the silly, and treats the cosmos like a carnival. In his world, things may not always make sense...but I think that for Chesterton, more important than complete understanding is complete experience.

[june6bug · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

Expect the unexpected.

[pflynn_62 · Bewertung: 3 von 5 Sternen]

Not having read Chesterton before, but knowing of him generally, I was expecting something along the lines of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, at least as regards the struggle between fiction and religion. In that novel, I have always found Raskolnikov’s conversion to Christianity to be unconvincing. What makes that novel amazing is its ability to conjure up Raskolnikov’s psychological character in full, and his jailhouse conversion seems to run contrary to what the novel has spent the bulk of its effort establishing, namely the interior of Raskolnikov’s mind. Christianity emerges not from within the novel, not from within Raskolnikov’s nature, but from without, imposed by the author.
As he was a devout Christian, I expected Chesterton to fall into a similar trap in The Man Who Was Thursday, and to allow his convictions to delimit his imagination. In that regard, I was pleasantly surprised. The ending is wholly consistent with the rest of the novel, but in transitioning the novel fully into the realms of allegory, it leads to a different set of problems. The novel is not a form especially conducive to allegory, and if you don’t believe me, try to read Pilgrim’s Progress. As a set of ideas, it makes perfect sense, but to modern readers, it will seem like the barest skeleton of a narrative. Syme, Bull and the Marquis de St. Eustache are not fully imagined human beings in the way that Raskolnikov is, but Chesterton avoids Dostoevsky’s problem because he does not intend his characters to be anything other than what they are.
As such, if Thursday is to be judged, it must be judged as an allegory. Allegories can take an abstract, intellectual argument and make it come to life. Two exemplars that suggest where Thursday falls short are Kafka’s “On Parables” and the story of the Prodigal Son from the New Testament. In a quarter page, Kafka produces a phenomenal riddle that seems to contain one of the mysteries of life. In the tale of the Prodigal Son, the whole essence of Christ’s message is condensed into the story of one man.
It is no accident that both of these examples are parables. Part of the genius of allegory is its ability to condense whole lines of argument and give them a tactile reality, a genius that is best displayed in parables. The novel is a far more expansive form that the parable, and it is unclear what Chesterton accomplishes in a 200-page allegory that could not be performed more concisely in a parable. Those two hundred pages are not at all painful to read, but they add little to the allegory revealed in the final chapter. Furthermore, allegory cannot achieve its own end. In the story of Sunday, the text hopes to present a convincing theodicy, a mark it falls far short of.

I also find it striking that when Chesterton and so many other turn of the century authors (Conrad, Dostoevsky) cast about for a danger that would imperil society, they fingered anarchism, not knowing that World War I lay just around the corner.

[misirlou_1 · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

The strength of the allegory lies in its ability to entertain while teaching. A good allegory shouldn't let the message overpower the story; too many times an allegory has been derailed by flat characters or a loosely connected plot with more McGuffins than a detective novel. Christian allegories tend to suffer from the writers' need to distill their character's humanity down until they're nothing more than a caricature of their most prominent traits.

Chesterton avoids this writing pitfall and delivers a story where the characters are both symbols and individuals, evolving as they fulfill their role in the story. The dialogue is witty, well written, and surprisingly fair. As a Chrisitan apologist, Chesterton seems to understand the appeal of nihilism but instead of simply defaming it, he works to understand the causes which drive a man to feel that any action is meaningless.

One of the most impressive aspects of The Man Who Was Thursday is the whimsical quality of it. Throughout the telling his story, Chesterton embraces a sense of surreality that allows him to deliver an insightful message about the motivations of man without going into the melodrama of everyday situations. In order to deliver a fantastice message, you need a fantastic story and this novel provides both. Whatever you're looking for-- an adventure story, beautiful imagery, a sensible allegory, a philisophical text, or simply a good quote you'll find it in The Man Who Was Thursday.

[debs4jc · Bewertung: 4 von 5 Sternen]

Plot Summary: What happens, When & Where, Central Characters, Major Conflicts
Detective Syme embarks upon a strange adventure after meeting a man spouting Anarchist poetry in the park. He engages him in a poetical debate and ends up following him to a secret meeting of a group of anarchists, who are about to elect their next representitive to the central Anarchist council--"Thursday" (the council members going by alias's named after the days of the week). Along the way Syme promised not to reveal the secrets of the Anarchists to the police, and he finds himself in an ever increasing peril as he ends up getting elected to the council and meeting the dreadful "Sunday". However, the story starts to get wierder and wierder, as one by one he discovers the secrets of the other members of the council and embarks on a bizarre chase.






Style Characterisics: Pacing, clarity, structure, narrative devices, etc.
Chesterton's use of language is poetical and full of wonderful metaphors, especially the way he describes the sky. The scenes he paints are vivid and striking, and the characters dialogue is quite witty and full of English humor. The plot is pretty straightforward, though it takes some wild leaps out of normalcy and into the absurd, so that the reader's imagination is stretched. This isn't just a simple story, and it is one to puzzle over for hidden and deeper meanings, or else it makes you wonder if the author isn't just having fun in turning things on their head, while making some philisophical points along the way.






How Good is it?
Brilliant, for lovers of the English, its language, philosophy and allegory, and tales of imagination.

[ben_a_11 · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

On re-reading, Chesterton's miniature masterpiece remains as fresh and queer as ever: a star-fruit among the bananas. No one seems to know quite where to place this book, and almost all definitions fail. Lethem calls it a somersault, Chesterton himself subtitled it "a nightmare." Rather than add my own failed attempt, I will note a thought sparked by this re-reading.

There are books which acquaint you with parts of yourself you find disagreeable, shameful, or low. All this past month, I have been trying to finish a book by Philip Roth. He's a marvelous stylist, and has an absolute needle eye that penetrates through all one's lies about oneself. Yet, his characters are loathesome: they think loathesome thoughts, they want loathesome things, they evoke loathesome responses. They are an education in baseness. Chesterton's books are the precise opposite of this. You may not find Chesterton's ideology sustainable, you may think him deluded, you may even consider him flippant, but his work ever and always points you in the direction of the person you would like to be, that you wish you were. He speaks to the elements of your personality you hope will become stronger, or govern you more fully. That's the kind of book The Man Who Was Thursday is, and that's why you should read it. (8.25.06)

[skholiast · Bewertung: 5 von 5 Sternen]

This is an unimprovable work, a jack-in-the-Chinese-box of a book, an instinctively balanced marriage of convention and somersault. It is a "thriller," yes, a "political parable," yes, any of a number of things; and like all masterpieces it "transcends genre," yes. But "the genius and wonder of the thing" is *how*: not by overstepping the genre, not by giving it some "twist," but rather by following the form so faithfully-- even, dare one say, formulaically-- that "formulaic" turns into a badge of honor and one is almost stunned by what the form is capable of holding. Chesterton aimed not to destroy the law, but to fulfill. His law in this case was the law of the surprise ending, and he was so scrupulous in his observance that we can ourselves observe the surprise coming a mile away-- and yet when it comes we are not only surprised, but astonished by a kind of (not unmixed) Joy; not because we were wrong, but because we are right, and yet knew not how right we were.

It’s like the paradox of the unexpected hanging (look it up, it may save you an unpleasant shock someday). The "trick" of "Thursday" can be anticipated by any reader of average intelligence-- G.K.C. is a true democrat-- well in advance of the ending. Nor is it, like the tired already-cliché broken stingers in the tail of an M. Night Shyamalan movie, meant to "blow your mind"-- which may be why it does. For having guessed, we keep reading, partly to see how it will come about (like watching "Oedipus Rex" or "Colombo"); partly driven by the fierceness and farce of the language; and at every step, with recognition and surprise, exclaiming, "Yes. Yes! Yes, *of course!*" even as the very thing we thought would confirm our expectations exceeds them.

With all due respect to the reviewer who felt G.K.C. was commending Christianity as the only antidote to chaos, "Thursday" is not a tract for the times. It is true that G.K.C. was a Roman Catholic and wrote many skillful and beautiful apologetic works, but "Thursday" is not one of these, nor yet exactly a novel. Rather-- as he cautioned-- it is "a Nightmare," albeit a comic one in precisely the Dantean sense.

During a night of drinking with his poet-friend, Gabriel Syme unexpectedly finds himself as a double-agent embroiled in an anarchist conspiracy that is progressively unmasked over a hundred or so pages as-- as-- as I hardly know what; as elephant and blind men, poem and punchline all together. On one level, the denouement is as conventional as any joke; yet the brilliance is that the whole point is how much of a joke, and how *good* a joke, convention is. On another level, though, the joke is a cosmic epiphany: Krishna addressing Arjuna on the battlefield, the Lord answering Job from out of the whirlwind.

The darkness of Chesterton's nightmare, like Job's, is dark indeed, and heavy, albeit mostly by implication; the single best summary of it I know is Borges', whose essay on Chesterton-- an elegant and frightening piece of three-quarter-truth-- I commend to all. The light, also, is--well, light; and a delightful light, dazzling, an answer to prayer *de profundis*. Some have indeed found it *too* dazzling, or at least a little too bright. But cumulatively the whole book makes an impression of both chiaroscuro and revelation. I, for one, turned the last page "a sadder and a wiser man." It's as though you completed a Rubik's cube to discover, dazedly, that you have squared the circle.

And then the thing "resets" in your hands to scrambled, leaving you wondering if it ever happened; for alas, "Thursday" is, after all, only a book. That's what makes Chesterton's slapdash-nonsensical adventure, cloaked in carefully predictable formulae, a study in nakedness as the best disguise. It's also why, as another reviewer has remarked, the ending is so puzzling, in ways both at harmony and at odds with how it is profound. The Man Who Was Thursday, like the creation of the world itself, is indeed "Very Good:" a perfect crime and its own perfect alibi in one.